Bird on a Briar
by hannah.jpg
Summary: Sequel to Crawling Towards the Sun. Lothiriel regrets her hasty decision to marry the King of Rohan.
1. Chapter 1

_3019 TA, Minas Tirith_

Minas Tirith was in flames.

The screeching of the Nazgul heralded in the destruction of the catapults, the booming thuds of the siege engines that rammed into the city walls and which deposited thousands of orcs, laying waste to the lower circles. The entire lower half of the city was engulfed in choking black smoke and the screams of the dying, echoing into the black night sky, where not even a single star shone.

So much fire! So much death!

Lothíriel was hiding in the citadel, as far away from the clamor and noise as she could be. It was a small linen closet, the linens having been given to the Healing Houses some hours earlier. But even through the sturdy oaken doors, she could hear the drums and the cries of fell beasts.

By some sorcery or otherwise, the screeching which echoed through the stone streets and buildings of Minas Tirith seemed to recall every miserable memory. Tears were streaming down her face, and she curled up within herself to try to ward off the fear. And such images her mind produced! Anardil, dead. Boromir, dead. And Faramir, most recently killed but dead nonetheless. She had seen his body in the citadel, and heard Denethor's orders to set fire to the last of his House, including himself. His madness had finally taken over, which she had suspected and exploited for years to try to secure the lives of her people.

She had failed!

Lothíriel pressed the palms of her hands against her ears, desperately willing the noise to be gone. She should have fled the city with the other women, she should not have been so foolish to think that she could help, she could do anything; she had failed, she had failed . . .

How many hours she hid, she did not know. But eventually the clamor became a dull buzz in her head, and numbness from the discomfort of her position dulled her senses. Then a sharp sound broke through her daze; horns! Not the sound of the harsh horns of the orcs, which she was now familiar with, but the clear, hopeful sound of horns of Men.

The horns of Rohan.

* * *

 _I realize for maybe those of you that have been waiting on the edge of your seats for this sequel, this first part is pretty darn underwhelming. Worry not, my friends. More to come quickly :)_


	2. Chapter 2

Lothíriel lay in her bed for some hours after waking. A recurring nightmare of the siege had woken her some time before dawn, but the lingering despair that was humming through her veins prevented her from seeking sleep once more. She stared at the canopy of her bed, but the rich fabric was unsympathetic to her turmoil. It was not entirely unexpected that nightmares had come to her; after all, the previous evening had been an upheaval . . .

She had agreed to marry the King of Rohan.

After the sojourn in Elessar's gardens, during which Éomer had admitted to loving her and she him and following a great deal of kissing, they had returned to the citadel in a state of excitement. Éomer had wished to speak to her father straightaway to receive permission to marry before his departure back to Rohan, and perhaps because of some lingering spell Lothíriel had agreed.

Imrahil, of course, had been overjoyed that his only daughter and his sworn-son had found love with one another, and almost before her mind had begun to function normally again, a wedding date had been set for the autumnal solstice. Éomer had laughed aloud with joy, and to her astonishment kissed her on the mouth in full view of her father.

"Now I can return to my home with hope in my heart," he had said, clasping her hand tightly in his own. "Lothíriel, my love!"

This had embarrassed her, and Lothíriel still felt heat rush to her face even thinking about it now. Imrahil had shown no discomfort to be present at such a private moment. Éomer had farewelled them then, as his company was leaving before dawn and there were preparations to be made. A final kiss for his soon-to-be bride, and then he left. The chamber seemed much larger without Éomer's presence, and Lothíriel stood blinking at the door for several moments before her father spoke.

"I am happy you have found your joy and life's purpose, Lothíriel."

She had not known what to say.

Still she did not. Doubt had crept into her heart as soon as she had heard that she would marry in a mere six months.

What had she been thinking?

Lothíriel swung her legs over the side of her bed, pressing her fingers to her temples as blood pounded in her head. What in Arda could have possessed her to agree to wed a man she barely knew? That she did love Éomer was not an issue; that she would be happy married him certainly was. Love could be so fickle! It did not contemplate the future or the necessities attached to it, and yet her own was now secured with hardly a thought of practicality.

A chill stole over her. She would have to leave Gondor!

She recalled Éomer's face to her mind's eye: handsome, eager, and utterly devoted. His generous attributes made her wonder why exactly she had earned his love, for in her mind she was still the same woman of the previous year; tetchy, abrasive, and suspecting of every small action. And likely to hide in cupboards when frightened.

With a sigh Lothíriel heaved herself out of bed, her limbs heavy. She tugged a dressing gown on over her nightdress and sat at the vanity. There was already an empty feeling creeping in her heart, knowing that Éomer was riding away and not like to return until Éowyn and Faramir's Midsummer wedding. She missed his presence already, but a small tinge of remorse was settling him. Had she deceived him?

No. She had told him she loved him and so she did. And so she had, for many months.

And yes. She did not feel prepared to marry him.

Lothíriel contemplated this as she combed her hair, staring listlessly into the polished looking-glass. If they loved each other, why was she so hesitant regretting their betrothal?

Did she still feel guilt for betraying Anardil's memory? No; except for a very little, easily put aside by her natural pragmatism. Anardil was, after all, long since passed, and she was young. Her previous betrothal was no real reason for her to remain unwed. Éomer's casual attitude the previous evening had assisted in this conclusion. She flushed slightly to remember it.

Was leaving her homeland so terrifying? Despite the surge of fear that she had felt earlier, Lothíriel calmed slightly as she considered this. No matter whom she married, she would have to live apart from her family. Even being the wife of a Lord of Lossarnach would require a week-long journey to either Dol Amroth or Minas Tirith. Rohan was further, that much was true, but it hardly signified. And with how frequently Éomer visited Gondor, she would be able to see her family often. Assuming he would wish her to accompany him, which she believed he would.

Was she concerned, perhaps, of being accepted by the people of Rohan? Not at all. She certainly liked all of the Rohirrim whom she had met thus far; they seemed to her a happy, lively, and sensible people. It would be a relief to live among them, rather than the stuffy politicians and nobles of Minas Tirith.

Or was it the notion of being Queen that brought her such unease? She paused in her combing, a tremor shaking her hand. That certainly seemed to be part of it! But why? Lothíriel had plenty of experience in noble duties. Adjusting to a different culture and slightly different role ought to be only a small challenge.

A distant memory recalled itself, and in her mind she saw her uncle's face; the lines filled with distrust and his cold eyes glittering with malice. " _You are fit to be my subject, but nothing more. And once your use is depleted, you may return to your father and beg for his mercy."_

He had said this when Lothíriel had renounced her father and his proactive politics against the evil in Mordor, swearing herself to serve Denethor as his especial spy in court, and was happily forgotten until this morn. She remembered her bruised pride at such a speech, and the indignity of lying to her uncle's face about her loyalties. A cold prickling across her skin made her shudder.

 _Nothing more_ , he had said. Lothíriel wondered what Denethor would think of her marrying Éomer and becoming his queen. Likely he would sneer, and say that they would fall to ruin together. Her uncle had been a very shrewd man . . . would he have been correct? Were Éomer and Lothíriel mismatched?

Éomer was honest, and she had often lied. He was at ease amongst people, whereas she preferred to keep to herself. He spoke plainly of his emotions, and did not hesitate to show happiness and pleasure. She held herself in reserve—years in Denethor's court had cultivated that.

The previous night, when Éomer had embraced and kissed her, Lothíriel had returned his passion confidently, assured in her newly-spoken love for him as well as his profession to her. But this was abnormal behavior for her, and she flushed with embarassment to remember it.

A scratching at the door jolted her back to the present, and a maid entered with a steaming jug of wash water. Lothíriel forced a smile.

"I am going to see the Queen today," she said. "A formal dress, if you would."

While the maid rummaged through the wardrobe, Lothíriel collected herself with years of practice. Shaking her loose hair back with her chin held high, no one would recognize the agitation of her morning thus far. The routine of dressing worked well to disguise her emotions, as it took very little thought. She splashed the hot water on her face and hands, dried herself, and discarded the robe as the maid brought out a lovely gold silk frock.

Once it was tied and buttoned appropriately, Lothíriel returned to the vanity to allow the maid to dress her her hair. She pulled forward a mother-of-pearl inlay box which held many of her jewels. Her mother's jewels. In a moment of wistful sadness, she touched a ring she remembered her mother wearing every day—a gift from Imrahil. The silver setting was burnished, and the teardrop-shaped sapphire dull. Already feeling worn, the surging grief of some five years earlier resurfaced. Lothíriel's shoulders stiffened.

How she wished for her mother! Mother would know what to do, what to say to help her. How often, during Lothíriel's childhood and youth, had she been troubled by something or another, and Mother had eased and comforted her? And were it not for her mother's death, Lothíriel might not have taken a position as a spy in Denethor's house . . .

Blind from tears, she chose a set of earrings and fastened them onto her ears, looking into the mirror but unseeing. The maid smoothed down her dark curls a final time.

"Thank you," she murmured to the maid, standing to shake out her skirt. She paused, and then turned to drop the ring into the maid's hand. "See that this is properly cleaned."

"Yes, my lady."

Only Erchirion was present in the breakfast room at that hour; likely Imrahil had been awake for hours already, and Amrothos still sleeping. Elphir was, of course, in Dol Amroth. Lothíriel smiled to see her brother, who rose to greet her.

"Good morning, Lothíriel!" he said, grinning broadly. "Come sit with me. I have heard some news; I wish to discuss it with you." She suspected exactly what news Erchirion was referring to, and her smile grew strained. But she joined him nonetheless, waiting until a servant brought in a fresh plate of toast for her before speaking.

"Do tell me, Erchi," Lothíriel said, pouring herself a cup of sweet jasmine tea.

"Hmm." He was leaning away in his chair, regarding her with a twinkle in his eyes. She suppressed a flush.

"I am dying of suspense," she added dryly.

"This most interesting gossip was relayed to me from Amrothos last night," Erchirion said, and then cleared his throat. "Is there to be another wedding this year, apart from Cousin Faramir's?"

Lothíriel glanced at him, her expression cool. "An excellent question. But whom will Amrothos marry? I did not realize he was intending to."

Erchirion laughed. "Sister, sister! I am referring to you, of course!"

She managed not to roll her eyes—but only just. "Of course."

"Amrothos told me he happened upon yourself and our friend Éomer in a most _interesting_ sort of embrace last night in the gardens, but scampered away before he could question such nonsense. And then," Erchirion's glee was all too evident, and the toast which Lothíriel was eating tasted of ash, and she struggled to swallow. "He saw the pair of you return to the citadel and seek out Father, and as he was not invited Amrothos naturally had to listen at the door of a, ah, private conversation."

That eavesdropping git! She kept her voice cool, but it grew hard. "Naturally."

Erchirion's smile faded somewhat, and he lifted a hand as if to touch her face. "Why, Lothíriel! You are pale! Have I offended you? It was not my intention; I was only so happy to hear that you and Éomer will wed that I thought I might tease you about it."

A surge of guilt jolted her, and Lothíriel arranged her features into a smile for her elder brother. "I would be surprised and disappointed if you did anything different," she said warmly. "Erchi, thank you. I apologize for seeming out of sorts; it was a late night. And I must go; the Queen is expecting me."

Erchirion helped her to her feet, and astonished her by kissing her once on each cheek. "I wish you all the best," he told her. "Éomer is a good man. You will be well-cared for."

Fetching her cloak, for the chill of spring remained even now, well set into April, Lothíriel hurried towards the citadel in the company of one of her father's guards with a thousand thoughts removing her from the present. Clouds hung heavy and low, threatening rain. She managed just to enter the great oaken doors, which a pair of guards opened for her, just as a sharp sheet of rain began to pour over the city.

"What is your business in the King's Hall?" Elessar's doorward challenged her in a booming shout, as his duty demanded, just inside the foyer of the citadel. Pushing back the hood of her cloak, Lothíriel regarded him coolly.

"Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil and princess of Dol Amroth and confidant of Queen Arwen, who has demanded my presence this morn for matters too lofty for your concern. Now step aside and let me pass."

Of course Queen Arwen had demanded no such thing, but these sorts of formalities gave the court at Minas Tirith its character. The doorward showed no offense at Lothíriel's tone, and she certainly wasn't bothered that he still treated her as an intruder until she named herself, despite knowing Ingold since she was a little girl.

"My lady princess," Ingold said, and bowed low. "May I escort you to the Queen's chambers?"

"You may. My guard will retire to the barracks and await my return."

The chattering of ladies already having already arrived at the Queen's bequest filled the marble corridors leading to her chambers. Ingold left her at the door, and a maid took Lothíriel's cloak. She smoothed down her hair, and Ingold knocked on the door, opened it, and bawled,

"Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth!"

The court ladies stood as she entered, and Lothíriel strode towards the Queen, sitting on a cushioned seat, and curtseyed low and spoke, "Good morning, your Majesty."

"Lothíriel! I am glad to see you. Come sit by me."

She did so, and everyone else resumed their previous positions, talking quietly amongst themselves. With the formalities over, Arwen reached over to take Lothíriel's hand, her eyes shining. "I am glad you have arrived at last; we will sing and make music as nature demands!"

It had been the Queen's task of late to impart some knowledge of Elven music and playing to various nobles of Gondor. Lothíriel could not disagree; after all, Arwen's people were gone, and perhaps if only for the Queen's sake, their heritage must be kept. And so the ladies congregated in the Queen's rooms regularly to learn from her. Several servants brought in trunks of carefully wrapped lyres, viols, and padded drums. While Lothíriel was an indifferent musician at best, she did find that she enjoyed the company and tutelage of the Queen, and so tolerated it better.

Quickly the chamber filled with song, the long, complicated lays of elves and attempted by mere mortals. It sounded well enough to Lothíriel's untrained ear, though she imagined the Queen must think it horrible. But Arwen was happy to play along on her viol, smiling broadly and giving instruction where needed. A very patient woman she was. Lothíriel could not imagine holding court in Edoras as queen herself with half as much grace. A feeling of illness settled in her stomach like lead, and she swallowed convulsively as voices rose around them,

 _Bird on a briar,_ they sang, _Bird, bird on a briar,  
_ _Man is come of love, love thus craved.  
_ _Blissful bird, have pity on me,  
_ _Or dig, love, dig thou for me my grave._

 _I am so blithe, so bright, bird on briar,  
_ _When I see that handmaid in the hall:  
_ _She is white of limb, lovely, true,  
_ _She is fair and flower of all._

 _Might I her at my will have,  
_ _Steadfast of love, lovely, true,  
_ _From my sorrow she may me save  
_ _Joy and bliss would me renew._

Lothíriel plucked absently at her harp. One song led into the next, and another, and another. The pleasant music lulled her, allowing her mind to rove to where it wished. Mainly, as it usually did, to Éomer. Thoughts of him were accompanied by a warm flush across her body, and she bit back a smile. How she loved him! And how much comfort she could draw from him even when he was absent. If only she could be so assured that she was fit to be his wife and queen . . . Denethor's cruel face came to her mind, and she struck a wrong note.

"I apologize," she murmured, as the Queen's gaze turned towards her, brows drawn. An uncanny feeling, which she often had, that Arwen could sense her thoughts, made her shift with discomfort. But the Queen's attention returned to the music.

Some hours later the noon bell struck through the citadel, causing them to jolt out of a spell of song. Lothíriel blinked, casting her eyes towards the windows and seeing a downpouring of rain outside against the green of the gardens.

"Stay with me longer."

Lothíriel glanced at Arwen, who had addressed her. "Of course, your Majesty," she said, inclining her head.

The servants packed back away the instruments, and the ladies stood, laughing and talking now. Each took leave of the Queen with a curtsey, and after several moments they had all filed out. The trunks of instruments were carried out by a pair of pages, and the doors shut behind them.

Away from so many people, and in the presence of the woman whom Lothíriel considered to be her closest friend, her shoulders sagged slightly, and she wrung her hands together in her skirts. She knew that Arwen knew of her and Éomer; how could she not? Elessar had been told, and he would have told his wife. Lothíriel certainly took no issue with Arwen knowing, but the doubt that was seeping through her heart . . .

"Are you well?"

Lothíriel looked up into the Queen's concerned gaze, surprised. But of course Arwen would not tease as Erchirion had done, and she had noticed Lothíriel's discomfort. She bit her lip. "Well enough," she said.

The Queen's lips lifted into a smile. "I pronounce myself relieved that Éomer declared himself to you. It seemed to me he was nigh on bursting with his affections."

"Was it so obvious?" Lothíriel could not help asking.

"Indeed it was, to those trained to see it. Men are easy to read when love shines out of their eyes, Lothíriel. And Éomer owns his feelings more plainly than most." Arwen paused, and her brows creased slightly, marring her beautiful face. "But your sentiments are not so clear. Estel told me last night that you agreed to wed him. Do you not return Éomer's love?"

"I—I do."

Arwen's grey eyes were piercing. "Then what troubles you, Lothíriel?"

She squirmed in her seat, almost unwilling to speak of her feelings. It was so much easier to push them away! But the temptation to confide, to seek the Queen's wisdom . . . Lothíriel sighed, and looked down at her clenched hands. "I love Éomer very much, your Majesty. I only—I doubt whether we would suit. We are so very different, he and I; I worry that love now may change to dislike later. And I have reexamined myself since last night and I believe . . . I cannot be Queen of Rohan."

"Cannot?" Arwen prompted when she paused.

"I have not the qualities which the queen would need," Lothíriel said. "I am still, at heart, accustomed to secrecy and lies, despite that I am in a better situation now than I was under Denethor's rule. The people of Rohan are honest, and I am not."

The Queen gazed at her for an uncomfortable moment, and then said gently, "I think you are mistaking your past with your present. No one believes you are still under Denethor's influence, and nor should you. Do not continue to punish yourself. That time is ended."

"I still—" Lothíriel swallowed at the emotion rising within her. "I cannot forget the past. It is a part of me."

Arwen smiled. "That may be, but it is not your whole self. It seems to me that you are only seeing that small part, and nothing else. I see a woman, a princess of the House of Dol Amroth, who has served her nation with courage, intelligence and unfailing loyalty, and has won the heart of the King of Rohan and one of the greatest men of this age."

Lothíriel returned the smile weakly.

"If you truly do not wish to marry Éomer, then you shall not," the Queen said, more briskly now. "It has not been announced, after all. But you must make your choice, Lothíriel, and you will live with it. I cannot advise you on the matter of your feelings, but I can assure you that being wed to one whom you love is a greater happiness than anything else the world might offer. There is no greater reason to live than such peace and contentment."

She had no choice but to nod numbly at this.

"Will you join me for luncheon?"

"I thank you—but no, I cannot. Father is expecting me."

"Then I wish you well." Arwen leaned forward to kiss Lothíriel's forehead. "Think on these matters. I know your heart is true; truer than you believe—I trust that you will make the right choice."

 _The right choice_ , Lothíriel thought sourly, as she trekked home in the pouring rain. It had soaked her cloak within minutes of departing the citadel, and almost she regretted the assistance of servants holding a canopy. The guard behind her maintained a stoic silence. Her pride was causing her to suffer once again.

She sloshed through the puddles, with frustration making her careless, and soon her pretty dress was splattered with mud. _The right choice indeed!_ As if there was any question what everyone _else_ believed to be the right choice. Lothíriel would wager that if she asked anyone she knew, they would advise her to marry Éomer without question. No contemplation of compatibility, no question of politics, no concerns whatsoever . . .

Well, _she_ would question it. She would question it all.


	3. Chapter 3

_3020, Minas Tirith_

Spring burst into summer seemingly overnight. The last of spring's blossoms wilted in the sudden heat, and the hot scent of summer blooms disguised some of the nastier smells of the city, at least in the upper circles. And despite the sticky humidity, Minas Tirith was in a right state with stream after stream of gossip was whispered and shouted, alternatively, at markets and between neighbors.

The wedding of the White Lady of Rohan and the Steward of Gondor was fast approaching. King Elessar had ordered more than one hundred cattle to be prepared for the wedding feast, two hundred chickens and exactly one hundred and fifty pheasants, they said. Silk merchants were required at the citadel day after day, presumably for the dressing of the royal court, but when they exited, looking frazzled, they refused to speak of their business. Inns had been booked full for weeks already; anyone wishing to attend the celebrations would likely be sleeping on floors or in streets. It would certainly be worth it, the gossips said, for the King would provide jugglers, singers and dancers to entertain the common folk in the streets on that day.

Lothíriel watched from the windows of her chambers as excitement mounted. She could not quite share in such giddiness, for this wedding was, to her, more a task than a pleasure. Éowyn had written to her and asked if Lothíriel would be her handmaid during the days preceding the wedding and during the wedding-day itself. Lothíriel had, of course, agreed.

With Éowyn's letter had come a correspondence from Éomer. This has startled her somewhat, but it had contained only an expressing of concern for her health and happiness, and that he missed her deeply. Somehow the image of Éomer, dear as he was to her, sitting down to pen her such an innocent missive had made her break down into hysterics. And when Amrothos had come to investigate the noise (he said he had thought her dying of some attack), Lothíriel had had no reason why she was laughing so.

Truthfully, it was the weight of her indecision and doubt that was causing such strong emotions in Lothíriel. She had always been so composed, but now her state of mind was compromised, and she was more like to do such things as laugh at sweet Éomer's letter or hide in a cupboard when a distant relation visited for several hours to avoid having to sit through a dull conversation.

She was not herself.

Faramir arrived in the city some ten days before Midsummer. He was looking bright-eyed and eager and hopeful, and when he stopped at Imrahil's house on his way to the citadel, the sight of his obvious happiness made Lothíriel's heart wrench. To have such hope! Was Faramir as foolish as Lothíriel feared becoming? She could hardly think so! Faramir had always been one of the wisest men she knew.

The delegation from Rohan entered the city, amidst the beginning of the festivities in the streets, with parades and music and already feasting and drinking. Lothíriel again was in her chambers, watching with a cool expression. Still her heart was divided between Éomer and wisdom, and she could not allow herself to be moved to such debilitating passion again. Passion did not bode well for the serious considerations.

Eventually the sight of the Rohirrim entering the gate to the Sixth Circle made her feel ill, and Lothíriel retreated into her chambers and sat down, breathing slowly. There was no use in agitating herself further; there was a welcome feast that night and she would see Éomer then. And during the three days preceding the wedding she would be at Éowyn's side, assisting the bride how she might. How her mind would be made she had yet to know, but it would be made eventually. Until then, she had only to fulfill her duties, and to think, think . . .

The stuffy heat of her chamber made her sleepy, and with no surprise. Lothíriel had not been sleeping well; her nightmares of the siege had been increasing of late, and the night before she had awoken at the screeches of fell beasts, which had brought to her memory her mother; wasted in illness with no hope for relief except the void of death . . . She fiddled with her mother's ring which she now always wore, drawing comfort from it and the reminder of her parents' love.

But really, it was far too warm to be allowed . . .

Lothíriel jolted awake sometime later, her head pounding along with someone's fist on the door. Lothíriel sat forward, groaning aloud as her stomach roiled with queasiness.

"Lothíriel? Are you there?"

It was now dark; how long had she been sleeping? She could not see Amrothos's face, but she heard his entrance.

"By the Valar, Lothíriel—what is going on? Are you ill? Father has been asking for you for hours; Éomer and Éowyn arrived at the citadel long ago. You were supposed to be there to greet them! Why are there no candles lit?"

"There are no candles because I have not lit them," Lothíriel said, her voice a croak. "I fell asleep. I apologize for my absence; you should have come for me earlier."

"You feel asleep? In the middle of the day? When you ought to have been preparing for tonight?"

These continuing reminders of her failing did Lothíriel no favors, and she stood abruptly. Dizziness made her vision blotch, and she stumbled, clenching onto the arm of her chair to right herself. Amrothos had reached for her, now close enough that she could see his anxiousness in his face even in the dim light from the city below.

"You _are_ ill!" he said. "Let me fetch a healer; Father will understand—"

"No! I am going to the feast. I dressed hours ago so that the maid could attend the festivals in the city. If you would be so kind as to escort me."

"But Lothíriel . . . your gown . . ."

"Is perfectly fine."

"It is wrinkled—"

Lothíriel smoothed down her skirt self-consciously, though her tone remained firm. "I am going to the feast, Amrothos, and I will not be delayed longer!"

She knew her brother well enough to know the signs of his annoyance, though it was too dark to see them. His jaw would be ticking, and his eyes hard. "Very well," Amrothos said. "I will escort you."

There was a moment's delay as Lothíriel secured various ornaments onto her head and neck, which had been carefully laid out on the vanity. It was tricky in the dark, but she managed earrings and a diadem. The diadem pressed more heavily on her head then she remembered, and a brief wooziness took her again.

"Let us go," she said, speaking quickly so that her brother would not notice her hesitancy.

Many bright torches and lamps were hung in the streets and lining the path to the citadel. From the city below came the sounds of merrymaking; shouts and music, and the scent of food. Ahead of them, more light spilled from the great doors to Merethrond, which were thrown open to allow the guests to overflow into the gardens.

On her brother's arm, Lothíriel lifted her chin high as they passed through the doors and into a wall of stuffy heat and smells. Hot foods and hot bodies made her frame tremble slightly, but she pressed on. They made for the high table at the far end of the feasting hall. Above it Lothíriel could see the banners of the White Tree of Gondor, the swanship of Dol Amroth, and the White Horse of Rohan. It did not ease her nerves.

Though she tried not to look at him, Éomer's golden head turned to her as the crowd parted to allow her and Amrothos to approach. She imagined his face breaking into a smile, concern at her absence ebbing away. But she kept her eyes down as they paused before Elessar and Arwen.

"Good evening, your Majesties," Lothíriel said, curtseying low. Now she could see the wrinkles in her skirt from her nap. She felt her face redden, straightened.

Arwen spoke first. "Lothíriel! We are glad to see you—and Amrothos, of course. Come sit; your places are by your father."

"Do you not think that she wishes to greet our guests first?" Elessar's words were soft, and meant for his wife only, but Lothíriel's sharp ears heard it well enough.

"Guests will keep, food will not," Arwen said. "I am sure Lothíriel is famished."

She contained a sigh of relief. "Thank you, your Majesty. I apologize for my lateness."

The Queen gazed at her for a moment. "All is forgiven, Lothíriel. It has been very busy with preparations, no?"

"Indeed."

Curtseying again, she took her leave, again with Amrothos. He steered her to the right of the Queen, where Imrahil and Erchirion were already seated, with two empty places. The Rohan delegation, on the opposite side, had gone quiet; Lothíriel imagined Éomer's eyes following her, perhaps in confusion that she did not greet him. Arwen had insisted she eat first, after all . . .

Not that she had an appetite.

Nonetheless she understood the importance of appearances, and so Lothíriel ate. Surprisingly, her stomach settled a bit with breads and vegetables and fruits. The bright light seemed to pierce her eyes less painfully, at least. The wine bolstered her nerves, and after several minutes of stoic silence she was able to engage Erchirion in a conversation: regarding the quality of the victuals, the sheer amount of guests, and elegance of the decorations, and how long the dancing would go on. Erchirion guessed until dawn, but Lothíriel hoped fervently it would end at midnight—after all, there was to be a wedding very soon, and then the feasting and dancing would last all night long. The guests needed to conserve their strength, she said.

This made her brother laugh, and feeling pleased, Lothíriel nearly choked when she sensed the approach of her betrothed, who bent down close behind her to whisper in her ear,

"A good evening to you, my love. I am glad to see you well."

She turned, managing a smile as she clenched a napkin in her lap. Éomer's eyes were bright, admiring on her face; the rich velvets he wore made his eyes positively green as grass. Tentatively, he stroked her cheek, his expression soft though his smile was broad.

"I missed you," he murmured.

"And I you." This much was true. Lothíriel had missed him, so very desperately. Already his presence was calming her, speaking to her on some level of her soul that he was there, he was with her, she was safe with him . . . Her eyes dropped, the surge of emotion bringing tears to her eyes. Guilt! So much guilt! That he loved her so fully, so completely and yet she was assayed with doubt.

"I wish I could stay, but I promised Éowyn I would only be a moment. Lothíriel, promise me a dance! There is much I wish to discuss with you."

A lump had formed in her throat, and so she nodded. Éomer kissed her quickly on her forehead and left. Erchirion, who had looked away during that exchange, now turned to her with a grin.

"I need more wine," Lothíriel blurted before he could begin teasing her. His brows lifted at this, but he poured her another glass without comment.

By the time the music began, to herald the end of supper and the beginning of dancing, she was lost in a pleasant haze. Her worries and fears, nurtured over the last months with particular diligence, were fading away until Lothíriel could think of nothing but how nice it was to feel such _relief_. When Éomer came to claim her, she was already smiling giddily, and stumbled into him with uncharacteristic clumsiness as he drew her to her feet.

"Oh! I beg your pardon," she said, blinking several times at his shoulders, which were level with her nose. If his height just wasn't a reason to love him even more! She bit back a grin.

"It is quite alright, my love." Éomer was positively beaming, holding her hands in his. "Do you need to rest for a moment before dancing, or—"

"No, not at all!" Lothíriel leaned in closer to him, enjoying the bemused expression on his handsome face. It _was_ a very handsome face, she thought, and she felt her face flush red. They were so close that nary a breath could pass between them, and Éomer cleared his throat.

"Is this normal behavior for you during wedding season, Lothíriel? I must know, so that I can prepare myself."

"Normal?" She tapped her chin with a finger, brows creasing. "First you must explain to me what normal is, Éomer. I haven't a clue."

He chuckled, and brushed some hair away from her flushed face. "I will tell you while we dance."

It soon became apparent that the dancing was far too spirited to allow for a conversation, let alone one of intelligence. But that was well enough for Lothíriel, for she could not have used her mind for anything just then. She allowed herself to be swung 'round by her Éomer, closing her eyes when the sensations became too many but smiling for him. Just for him! How she loved him. It made her very heart ache, but the pain of it was too far away for contemplation. Exactly where she wanted it.

Though their betrothal had yet to be made common knowledge, she knew by the stares and whispers around them that it was already guessed. Imrahil had arranged a feast for some days following Éowyn and Faramir's wedding, during which Lothíriel and Éomer's engagement would be announced. But this concern—and it certainly had become a concern of late—was far away. It would hardly do to struggle inwardly with such doubts whilst the wine was dulling her senses.

"What is it?" Éomer asked some time later, during a pause between songs. They were both out of breath, and without speaking they decided to seek refreshment for their parched throats. Lothíriel blinked up at him in confusion, and patiently he clarified, "Why are you smiling at me so? It is almost unsettling!"

"Unsettling?" Lothíriel asked. "But why? Is a woman not allowed to smile at her love?"

Éomer grinned at this; it was obvious he enjoyed Lothíriel calling him her love. He said, "I cannot claim to know you better than anyone else, but I do know that your smiles are generally rare events. Was the wine too strong?"

"Oh! Perhaps it was, but I did not notice. After the third glass, I think."

He laughed aloud, and the crowd parted before them as they made for a refreshment table. It was darker near the walls of the hall, and it relieved the distant headache between Lothíriel's eyes as Éomer fetched her a glass of water. "No more wine for you," he said, tweaking her nose. "I would not that my love to be so ill we cannot go for a ride tomorrow. I was hoping you would agree to accompany me . . ."

Lothíriel sipped at the water. "I—I think I am going to be with Éowyn during the day," she said. "Surely you know that I am her handmaid for the wedding."

"She did mention it, but I also threatened to toast Faramir over a fire if she did not allow me time with you as well." In the flicker of torches, Éomer's eyes and grin darkened with some sort of ferality which caused Lothíriel's heart to thump faster. Suddenly the cold lines of a warrior were visible in his face. But then she blinked, and the spell was broken. It was only Éomer, her Éomer, and his smile was quite normal.

"I would not worry about it," she said briskly, to cover her discomfort. "Éowyn will understand."

"She had better. Now, are you quite refreshed? Shall we dance more? Or would you rather take a tour of the gardens?"

To be alone with him sent a shiver up her spine, and she did not know if it was of pleasure or apprehension. Éomer's hand was warm on her waist, which was mightily distracting. Lothíriel did not trust herself, in her current state, to behave as she ought. "Dancing," she said firmly.

"Very well then, dancing it shall be."


	4. Chapter 4

_3020, Minas Tirith_

Lothíriel woke the following morning with a pounding headache and a distinct haze of her memories of the previous night. This was why, after some tea and toast in bed, she questioned the maid as to why her riding clothes were laid out.

"You requested them last night—or should I say, this morning," the maid said, bobbing a curtsey. "If my lady wishes something else—"

"A day dress, if you please." Lothíriel could barely remember Éomer inquiring whether she would go on a ride with him. But she had told him she must be with Éowyn—or at least she thought she had—and so to Éowyn's side she would go. Surely a bride needed her handmaid three days before her own wedding more than a man needed his betrothed . . .

She set out for the citadel, where Éowyn was being housed (Faramir being a guest in Imrahil's house), along with the higher ranking of the Rohan delegation. The common soldiers and guards were in the barracks. Lothíriel turned her face to the bright summer sun, at its noon peak. She meandered slowly with a guard trailing behind her. She was fortunate the wine had not taken worse revenge, and for the maid's foresight to bring willow bark tea for her head.

But now that her mind was free of wine, it remembered her doubts. Should she not have led Éomer on in such a way? As she still considered whether to cry off their engagement, was it not unkind of her to act as though nothing was troubling her?

To her surprise, Éomer was in the antechamber of the great hall when she arrived, in conversation with a man of Rohan whom she did not know. When she stepped inside, he glanced at her, smiled, and dismissed the man, who bowed and left. Éomer approached her, picking up her hand and kissing it. Lothíriel saw, over his shoulder, the doorward Ingold looking scandalized.

"I would not waste a moment with you," Éomer said, making her gut twist with guilt. "But how are you—are you suffering from last night?"

"I am quite fine, thank you," Lothíriel said, more coolly than she intended. She tugged her hand away, and to make excuse for such rudeness, she tucked a loose curl behind her ear. "I suppose you are perfectly well," she added, noticing the blankness on Éomer's face.

"Oh—indeed. I had very little wine. You bewitch me enough, my love."

Lothíriel flushed red at such a speech. "Will you take me to Éowyn?" she asked after a moment.

"It would be my pleasure."

That was the extent of their talking for the remaining walk through the citadel; Lothíriel was feeling uncomfortable and Éomer seemed too pleased to break the silence. He was clasping her hand very tightly. She wished—oh how she wished!—that she might return his love with as much optimism and as few misgivings as him. Nausea crowded her senses at this, and she took a deep breath as they stopped at Éowyn's guest chamber.

"Thank you," she managed to say, and felt Éomer lift her chin. There was a crease between his brows as he studied her face, and Lothíriel forced a smile.

"If you are in need of anything, you have only to ask," he said softly, and kissed her forehead. "I will see you later, I hope."

"Of—of course."

He bowed and left, looking back over his shoulder at her a final time with a grin. Lothíriel breathed deeply, steeling herself for what would surely be an inane morning. She liked Éowyn very much, but weddings—bleh! She had attended many weddings in her childhood and youth, due to her status as highest born lady in Gondor (excepting now for the Queen), and Lothíriel had learned that they were generally odious affairs. A brief thought came to her: was this perhaps part of the reason she was so hesitant to marry? But that would have to be considered later; she straightened her frock, lifted her chin, and entered the chamber.

To her surprise only Éowyn and her ladies maid, on lend from the Queen, were present. Lothíriel had expected a positive gaggle of women, and so the quiet of the chamber was very welcome. There was very little to do, as it turned out, as the truly busy preparations would be the day of the wedding.

"I am to have my gown fitted tomorrow," Éowyn explained. She was sitting at a desk, quill in hand. "For now I am only looking over the Queen's choices for the wedding feast. A silly task, do you not think? For I am sure I will not be noticing what I am eating at all!"

Lothíriel laughed. "I am sure you are quite correct," she said. "But Arwen means well. She only wishes your wedding to be a grand celebration of not only your and Faramir's love but of our two nations joining together in alliance."

Éowyn frowned slightly at this, but returned her attention to the parchment on the desk. "Have we not done that enough already?" she mumbled, as if to herself. "If I had a choice, I would have wed Faramir months ago with no more than a clerk and my brother present."

"It is generous of the King and Queen to give you such a lavish celebration, nonetheless," Lothíriel said. "It would not do to spurn such a gift."

"Oh! That is not what I meant," Éowyn glanced at her with a smile. "I am only eager to marry, I suppose. It seems a great deal of fuss for two people who only desire to be alone without a chaperone."

Lothíriel agreed, though she was embarrassed by the other woman's frank speech. "That it is. I can sympathize, I suppose." Without thinking, she sunk into a settee by a pillared window, which looked out into Elessar's private gardens. The gardens where Éomer had told her he loved her, and she had agreed to marry him. The thought brought her both pleasure and dismay. Why could she not reconcile herself to a decision? Because she was too selfish to give Éomer up, she supposed; if he did not marry her, he would certainly have to marry another woman. That made her gut twist with jealousy, and without thinking her fingers clenched into a fist, her skirt balled up and wrinkling in her grip. But nor could she reconcile herself to marry him herself. _She_ was not fit to be queen, but likely no other woman would be, either. Or was that only her own arrogance?

"Lothíriel?" Éowyn's voice broke through her thoughts, and she turned.

"I am sorry," Lothíriel said, abashed. "I—I was woolgathering."

"I suspected as much." For some odd reason, Éowyn was smiling. "Were you thinking of your own wedding?"

"Oh, er—yes, I suppose."

Éowyn's grin broadened, and her resemblance to her brother increased. "He speaks of you often, you know. It might drive me to insanity, if I was not so happy that he has found love as I have."

Lothíriel had no response.

"He has even already begun preparations," Éowyn added, and dipped her quill in the inkpot, writing something on the parchment. "Do not tell him I have spoiled the surprise, but he is renovating the queen's chambers for you. I have seen him apply such energies to little else. He positively adores you, Lothíriel."

"Oh! That is—kind of him."

Éowyn glanced up again, this time with a conspiratorial wink. "Éomer would wrangle the moon for you, I wager."

Again Lothíriel could not speak, there seemed to be a lump swelling in her throat. Her hands were shaking, and she looked down at them in discomfort. She _was_ leading him on, by the Valar! How devastated would he be if she cried off? She could not even contemplate it . . . But another spark in her heart, this one of resistance, told her that she could not contemplate marrying with so many doubts, either.

"Tell me if this is appropriate," Éowyn said, brushing away their earlier conversation and passing to Lothíriel the parchment. "I only removed the pickled sea urchins—whatever those are, they do not sound appetizing. I thought I ought to have something to say, to prove that I have given the menu due consideration."

Lothíriel smiled wanly, and took the parchment. Her eyes were unfocused, and she struggled to make sense of the words upon it. "Yes, I daresay it is well enough," she said absently, and returned the parchment.

"Excellent! Have we earned a break, do you think?"

"Already?"

Éowyn's eyes were sparkling with mirth at Lothíriel's skepticism. "Of course! Now Éomer tells me you are the best player of _l adan_ , might I convince you to teach me? There is time before luncheon, and in the afternoon the Queen has asked for my presence."

Lothíriel was not entirely sure she could win in any game at the moment—let alone teach it—so thorough was her distraction, but she agreed nonetheless. It would take her mind off of her troubles, in any case. Or so she hoped.

* * *

The following days became a blur to Lothíriel. Hampered by her own self and busy with the wedding, she scarce had time to hash out a decision regarding Éomer, and so was left brooding in the few minutes she had to herself. Those moments were few, and as the wedding day approached, she was in demand all the more.

The day of the wedding dawned, hot and bright and cloudless. Lothíriel had slept badly once again, nightmares stealing away her rest and replacing it with stale fears and a dread of seeing her betrothed—or anyone, really. But it was no day to allow such trepidations to overcome her. She dressed quickly in a fine emerald gown, refusing breakfast and setting off for Éowyn's side at once, fetching her gift for the bride after a moment's hesitation.

Éowyn's chambers were stuffy with the scents of warm bodies and excess perfumes. The bride was barely visible between nearly two dozen maids and other ladies, rushing around with pins and jewelry and more perfume, many tripping over skirts or the skewed rugs or each other. Poor Éowyn's expression was not one of a happy bride, and Lothíriel wagered that the sparkle in them was from tears, not excitement. Éowyn glanced over at her entrance, and mouthed, " _Help me."_

Lothíriel straightened her shoulders, and with her best commanding voice (Denethor would be proud), nearly bellowed, "Cease this nonsense at once!"

While many of the women present knew her, by name or by sight, none of them had ever heard Lothíriel raise her voice. The commotion stopped, and several wary and astonished eyes were cast her way.

"This is outside of enough," Lothíriel snapped. "I cannot even enter this chamber for such chaos and _I_ am the bride's handmaid. If you are related to the bride, you may stay. If you are fitting her dress, you may stay. Everyone else— _OUT!_ "

There was more scrambling, but this time to set down whatever they were carrying and to hasten towards the door. Lothíriel saw Éowyn's breath of relief and gave her a reassuring smile. There was no reason for Éowyn to share in Lothíriel's dissatisfaction today, and so she would do her damndest to prevent it. The ladies and maids were now departing, each of them curtseying to her with murmured, _My lady_. She did not deign to look her way, and once the door was closed quietly behind the last of them, she approached Éowyn.

"Thank you, thank you a thousand times over!" Éowyn said, taking her hands. "I do not know where they came from—"

"They are drawn to excitement like vultures to a corpse," Lothíriel laughed. "And I apologize for the gruesome image."

"It is no matter."

"You seem to be well in hand," Lothíriel added. Éowyn's golden lace frock fit her very well. A maid was left mending the train, which was unravelling at a snag. Already her hair was dressed, but it was coming undone, perhaps due to the humidity, and as no one else was left, Lothíriel picked up a comb and dampened it in a bowl of wash water.

"You look very pretty today." Éowyn spoke as Lothíriel began to neaten her hair, unresistant to the administrations. "Éomer came by earlier; I think he was hoping to see you. But I told him you had yet to arrive and he took himself off, likely to harass Faramir."

Lothíriel's breath caught as her stomach flipped with pleasure and apprehension at the thought of Éomer. Part of her wished fervently that this was _their_ own wedding day, and surprised at this feeling, she nearly stopped the combing.

"It will only be a few hours, will it not?" Éowyn was asking dolefully. "I miss Faramir so much I feel that I might burst."

"Yes," Lothíriel said absently. "It will be fairly short, I hope." Though for different reasons.

After Éowyn's hair was to Lothíriel's standards, she next helped to fasten a golden necklace and tiara on the bride's neck and head. There was much giggling as Lothíriel was forced to comb Éowyn's hair once again.

"I am not much of a ladies' maid," Lothíriel said. "But I have done my best and salvaged what I could."

"That is enough for me! I only wish this day was over."

The tolling bell rang, making them all jump. The maid had finished the fixing of Éowyn's hem, and curtseyed before departing in a rush. Likely wishing to find a good place to view the nuptials. Lothíriel fetched cups of water for them both, as it would be a hot afternoon and any swooning would be out of the question. The water settled nauseatingly on her empty stomach, though Éowyn perked up immensely.

"I am ready," she said. "Oh, I am ready to be wed! Where is Éomer? He is to escort me."

"He will be here soon, I am sure. But now, let me be the first to congratulate you." Lothíriel took a deep breath, smiling at her friend. "Éowyn, I hope with all my heart you will be happy! I have a gift for you." She shook a ring out of her reticule, holding it up for view. It was a golden band, with four round rubies set in the center.

"Oh!" Éowyn said in surprise. "You did not need to—"

"I did," Lothíriel said firmly. "It was intended for Faramir's mother."

Éowyn glanced up at her in confusion.

"Denethor gave it to me," she explained, though the words were sour. "He had prepared it for his wife to celebrate the birth of their second child, but my aunt died before he could gift it to her. I suppose afterwards that he convinced himself it was of no value, and so passed it to me." What Lothíriel did not feel necessary to explain were the circumstances of Denethor's uncharacteristic generosity: he had bestowed it upon her for her service to him. Her deceit. Her foul deeds. Her lying—

"Thank you, sister!" Éowyn said, and placed the ring upon her third finger. "Oh, dear! I cannot repay you this kindness."

Lothíriel blinked, her thoughts interrupted. _Sister_. Éowyn had called her sister. "You do not need to repay me this," she told Éowyn. "That would be ridiculous. It is a _gift_."

A knock at the door forestalled Éowyn's reply, and their attention was turned towards Éomer's entrance. He was dressed in fine red velvets with an elegant black cape at his broad shoulders, and Lothíriel bit her lip, unprepared for the barrage of his handsomeness. Again her mind changed, and how she wished to wed him!

He was staring at them, his mouth agape, and then at once burst into booming laughter. Éowyn's face creased, and Lothíriel took her arm to reassure her.

"Ignore him," she said loudly. "Brothers are like this, when they ought not to be."

"No, no—I apologize," Éomer wheezed. "I only recalled suddenly—a conversation I once had—" He trailed off into further laughter, and Lothíriel and Éowyn exchanged an unimpressed look. "Here now, I will tell you, then you will not think me such a lout." He calmed, and cleared his throat. "I was only remembering a discussion between Gimli the dwarf and myself, regarding whether to give our love to the morning or evening." Éomer glanced between them, grinning broadly. "It feels as though that situation is repeating itself." His eyes lingered on Lothíriel, who felt her face flush.

"You have no choice today, brother," Éowyn said, though she seemed mollified. "I am yours for now, and Lothíriel later. I am ready; let us depart in haste. I am tired of waiting."

Despite Lothíriel's protests, Éomer insisting on taking both of them, one on each arm. "Now I will be the luckiest man in the whole city," he said, and his warm eyes settled on Lothíriel once more. "Accompanied by the two most beautiful women! Mortal women, I suppose," he added as an afterthought.

"I ought not enter with you," she mumbled, as they began to traverse the corridors and towards the great hall.

"Nonsense! I will not let my bride—future bride, I mean—left to walk alone. I have more manners than that."

"Do not argue with him," Éowyn leaned forward to glance at Lothíriel, who was troubled by this generosity. "Éomer will not change his mind when he is in such a mood."

They stopped at the entrance to the great hall, the din of the waiting guests easily audible. Éowyn was smiling, no sign of nerves, but Lothíriel felt as though she might vomit. She had likely drank too much water, then. Amrothos was waiting there in his silver silk doublet, and relieved Éomer of her.

"They are ready," he said.


	5. Chapter 5

_Midsummer Day, 3020 TA, Minas Tirith_

Lothíriel buried her face deeper into her arms, pulling her knees close to her chest. The pounding in her head had not eased since she had sought out this solitude; instead, the silence made the rushing blood in her ears all the louder. From far away came the sounds of the wedding feast: music, clapping and stomping, chattering and laughter.

It had been, all in all, a fatiguing day for her. That everyone else had enjoyed themselves immensely was cold comfort; the despair weighing in her heart was nearly overwhelming, and tears began to leak out of her eyes.

During the wedding ceremony, Lothíriel had stood at Éowyn's side as a handmaid ought. But the heat of the room, combined with her lack of nourishment and her already feeble nerves, had caused her mind to shut down. Were it possible to fall asleep standing, she may have done so. Nonetheless she had closed her eyes for only a half-moment, and her nightmares had presented themselves without delay.

The screech of the Nazgul's fell beast had roused her, bringing her back to the present with a gasp. When she opened her eyes, Éowyn looked curiously over at her before returning her attention to the wedding vows. Lothíriel's throat had been dry, and she'd swallowed, feeling a hot red flush across her body and making her itch. And Éomer had been watching her, too. She had felt his penetrating gaze even across the dias.

The end of the ceremony was a great relief, and not so quickly as to gain attention but swiftly enough all the same, Lothíriel left the hall through a side door. A few minutes of inattentive wandering and she had found a linen closet. It took no consideration to decide that it would be an excellent place to pull herself together, and that she would not be missed from the celebrations. So she shut herself in, and indulged in a large dose of self-pity.

How could she have allowed herself to descend into such a state?

The full humiliation and weight of her own behavior caused Lothíriel to groan aloud in embarrassment. That she be so weak that she nearly doze off during her friend's wedding! How had it come to this? Was this a consequence of her own lack of care towards herself?

Her stomach rumbled in response. Indeed, likely it was.

The window near the ceiling of the closet, to allow light in during the day, darkened. Lothíriel sat still, nausea and misery rolling over in in waves. She hated herself for her weakness. Why, why could she not accept love and hope as Faramir had done? Why could she not be happy? And why was Denethor's cruel laugh still echoing in her mind?

The door to the linen cupboard opened with a soft creak, allowing torchlight from the hall to spill in. Lothíriel, keeping her face hidden, surreptitiously wiped the tears from her face and hoped that whomever it was would leave her alone.

A sigh; a familiar, deep sigh, and the intruder entered. Lothíriel stiffened as the door was shut again, and a large figure sat beside her—very close in the cramped space. She felt a warm arm encircle her shoulders, and she was drawn into an embrace.

"Tell me," Éomer's voice said softly. "Tell me what is troubling you, my love."

"I should not have left the celebrations. I am sorry." Lothíriel's voice was a croak after so many hours alone, most of which were spent weeping. Her throat was terribly dry.

"That is not what I am asking. You have been pallid these past days, though you disguise it well." He paused. "Apart from the ceremony, I mean—that was rather obvious. What happened?"

She bit her lip, trying to think of some way to stall him, to distract him or to deceive him as to the true nature of her distress. But then she remembered with awful clarity one of the first conversations they'd had; Éomer never lied, and he was proud of it. And he had disparaged that she was less than honest. No matter her doubts, she did not wish to lose his good opinion.

"Éomer," Lothíriel murmured, and sunk deeper into his arms, breathing in deeply his musky scent. Oh, how well she loved him! If only it was so easy . . .

His thumb was stroking her cheek, and he whispered into her hair, "I am listening, my love."

It all rose within her, threatening to spill from her lips: her nightmares and their despair, her lingering fear of Denethor, her doubts that she could be a good Queen of Rohan, that she felt she was unworthy of his love and how she could not face such a quick marriage with a clear conscience. But she quashed it! She could not tell Éomer of her own foreboding of marrying him; how would he judge her? Lothíriel swallowed, and her suppressed feeling caused tears to build in her eyes, and she turned her head to bury her face in his tunic.

He said not a word for several minutes, allowing her to gather herself, and his hold on her tightened when her a sob broke through. This was enough, however, to communicate to Éomer the gist of it; or was it her soul crying out in the silence?

"There is a saying in the Riddermark," Éomer said after several minutes of silence. " _Wiðercwide in æghwa;_ opposition in everything. That our best and worst feelings must be tempered by their opposites. Joy must come with bitterness to experience the full sweetness of happiness. Fear by hope to avoid consumption. Courage by prudence to prevent foolhardiness." His voice trailed off for a moment, and then, "Too much of any emotion is harrowing beyond degree."

Lothíriel's eyes were closed now, enjoying the comfort of Éomer and wishing for water. It astonished her that her love, her warrior king, could not only understand to some extent her unspoken feelings but that he could offer such wisdom! Had he always been so wise? He lifted her chin then, and she blinked as their eyes met. The moonlight from above made his eyes dark, and she quivered with pleasure. No fear this time.

"Do you love me?" Éomer asked quietly.

"I do," she said, her voice wavering. "Oh, I do!"

His lips rose in a smile. "Then why question it? Why question anything, really? Love is enough, Lothíriel— _this_ is enough."

In the sincerity of his words she nearly believed him, but still a stubborn voice in her head said, _Love is certainly not enough! There is more to life that needs to be dealt with_. But she ignored it. Lothíriel smiled, lifting her hand to touch Éomer's face, sighing. He took her hand and kissed the palm, lingering and breathing deeply.

"I cannot express my relief that you love me," he said. "I worried that you were going to say that your heart had changed against me."

"No. I love you as ever."

Éomer's face broke into a grin, and he pulled her closer, though she had doubted whether such a thing was even possible, and he kissed her.

The passion, the desire and the heat the Lothíriel remembered returned in force; within moments she was positively trembling. How could he affect her in such a way? But that was a thought for another time—she yielded into his arms and kissed him back fervently.

She both felt and heard the rumbling groan in his throat, and the tightening of his hands along her waist and arm. The sensations caused her to gasp aloud, and a single, dazed notion: perhaps love _was_ enough. But the nagging voice in her head began again. How could she be sure it _was_ love, and not a case of infatuated lust?

At that moment, Lothíriel did not care.

In a desperate move to be closer to Éomer, she inched into his lap until she was sitting astride him, kissing him all the more fiercely from her height. His hands were hot, weaving into her loose hair and gripping her waist tightly. She could feel the flexing of his arms even through layers of clothing, and that made her all the more dazed. Lothíriel touched the hard muscles of his chest, enjoying it all too much, and moaned languidly into his open mouth.

Éomer broke away, his breathing ragged. "Lothíriel, my love . . ." he murmured, and nipped at her neck. "We must stop."

"I do not want to."

He lifted his head, kissing her chin. "We must. Lothíriel, this is not the sort of thing one ought to do in a linen cupboard."

"Then take me elsewhere."

"Do not tempt me." Now his voice was a growl, and his hand on her waist clenched into her flesh painfully.

Lothíriel let loose a long breath, resting her forehead against his and tasting his breath. "I cannot put into words how exquisite this feels," she whispered.

Without a response, Éomer lifted her into the air to set her gently onto the ground next to him. Her head was knocked against a shelf in the process, and she rubbed her head ruefully. Still, she could not help but smile as he apologized profusely.

"Nay, I am not hurt," she said. "Though my pride is bruised."

"Because of the shelf? Surely not—"

"Or because my own intended has refused to make love to me." As soon as she said it, Lothíriel realized how childish she sounded. The swelling emotions she was feeling were making her mind hazier than her nightmares.

Éomer's brows creased as he regarded her. "Oh, my love, that is not it at all! When we are wed, I will make love to you in any linen cupboard if you so desire it. Not that we shall need to," he added as an afterthought. "There are better places."

Lothíriel was silent; befuddled by her own feelings. Where had her doubt gone? She could not sense it, and it had been a part of her for so long . . . if it _was_ truly gone from her, then it seemed that simply being alone with Éomer was antidote for all her worst fears. Without warning she began to laugh.

"Here now, what is this?" Éomer asked, smoothing her now mussed hair away from her face with a grin.

Still laughing, she pulled him close for a kiss. "I would wed you today, if I could," Lothíriel said. "I thought so this very morning."

His brows shot skywards.

"I had been thinking that autumn was too soon," she explained. "Not so soon that my conscience would not protest against it, and not long enough to appease it. But today, I have no scruples whatsoever."

"Indeed," Éomer said dryly. "Why else would you be in a cupboard with an unmarried man?"

Lothíriel could not help beaming. "But now you must tell me—how did you find me?"

He chuckled. "Well—I was wondering where you had gone off to. And to distract me, Amrothos regaled me with a tale of how you had hidden in a store cupboard when a distant relation came to visit. It simply added up."

"Amrothos did not put the two together?"

"No. Or perhaps he was gifting me a hint so that I could find you, and save himself the bother."

"Hmm." Lothíriel yawned then, pressing her hand to her mouth. Éomer smiled at this, and leaned forward to plant his lips against her forehead.

"It is growing late," he said. "And by now it is likely our absences have been noted."

"No one will notice," Lothíriel contradicted. "I know exactly how many barrels of wine and mead have been opened for the occasion."

"Then perhaps we can . . . linger a bit longer."

She was on the verge of agreement when her stomach choose that moment to growl ferociously. The light-headedness from her hunger had long passed, but now returned with a mighty vengeance. Éomer began to laugh at her affronted expression.

"Let us seek out repast, then," he said. "Shall we to the kitchens? I have no desire to return to the banquet; my own sister's wedding or no."

"The kitchens will be too busy," Lothíriel told him. "I was rather thinking I would return home. There will be food in the larder."

His eyes were glittering in the dark. "And may I offer an escort for my lady?"

She smiled. "You may."


	6. Chapter 6

_3017 TA, Minas Tirith_

Lothíriel stepped through the doors to her chambers in Denethor's house. She glanced at the maid, straightening the bedclothes, and the maid caught glimpse of her. She immediately dipped in a curtsey.

"You may go," Lothíriel said. She kept her voice level.

The maid departed, and the door was shut.

Lothíriel crumpled.

She hid her face in her hands, allowing the tears which had been threatening all morning to spill over. Her overwhelming feelings of shame and guilt were poured into them, and her heart thumped heavily and painfully in her chest. Hot prickles were spreading across her skin.

She hated her uncle. She hated what he made her do. She hated that she _did_ it; everything he commanded. She hated hurting people, she hated seeing the confusion and anger in their eyes as they stared at her. _What did I do?_ , they seemed to say. _You are Imrahil's daughter, why do you not stand against the steward_?

Because it was not her place to stand against Denethor. That was her father's task to do, and her brothers and even her cousins, when they could. Lothíriel was to keep her head low and to know Denethor. What he would do next. What he would not do.

It was fortunate he thought her so loyal to himself. For otherwise she would not be privy to his thoughts. He enjoyed it; he appeared to revel in taunting her with prophecies of death and war. No doubt he wanted her to despair for her family.

Denethor was far too skilled at mind games.

Lothíriel wiped her tears, adopting her usual cool-set expression as she straightened her dark skirt, walking to the open terrace which looked above the Citadel's gardens. But instead of the browning plants and grass, she saw Lady Emdriel's expression.

 _You are not welcome here_ , Lothíriel had told her. _Leave the court at once. My uncle orders it._

Her heart wrenched anew, and more tears came. The concealed fury in the lady's face was righteous indeed—she had done nothing wrong; at least as Lothíriel judged it. Denethor's standards were different. But being Lord Arcor's wife was complete damnation. Lord Arcor trusted Imrahil above Denethor, and he was not afraid to vocalize so. But Lady Emdriel did not yet realize her fortune. She would be allowed to stay at her house. Lord Arcor was imprisoned. Surely she would have by now arrived at her house and discovered the news of her husband.

It had been two hours or so since Lothíriel had expelled the lady in view of her usual audience of court ladies. These ladies were too wily, or too accustomed to their lofty position to endanger it by "treasonous liaisons", as Denethor explained it. Lothíriel rather thought they would benefit from such liaisons—perhaps they would titter and gossip and scheme a bit less.

There was a knock at the door. Lothíriel straightened her shoulders, pushing the anxiety away from her mind and turned. But it was only a page, and he bowed.

"Lord Denethor wishes your presence for luncheon."

"I will be there."

* * *

The meal started silently, but Lothíriel was accustomed to her uncle's dour moods. As accustomed as she could be. There were eerie echoes in the otherwise deserted dining hall—too large for only two occupants. But she knew Denethor would speak soon. He did not invite her to dine with him for pleasure.

She did not have to wait long.

"Did you speak to Lady Emdriel this morn?" Denethor asked, cutting into his pheasant without looking up. Lothíriel swallowed a bite, it tasting of ash as she tried not to think of the scanty rations which Denethor had authorized to be sent to the garrison at Osgiliath.

"Yes, Uncle."

"And?"

"She did not argue, sir. She left the Citadel soon after."

"Good."

More silence. Then, "I received a letter today from Marshal Éomer of Rohan."

Lothíriel did not respond; she knew he would elaborate to his amusement. For surely Denethor found humor in the presumption of this Marshal—why else would he speak of it to her?

"He begs an audience. He is to arrive two weeks hence."

She accepted this with mild interest, though she listened more keenly as her uncle continued.

"It is my guess," he drawled, a bejeweled finger touching the base of his wineglass—a page hurried forward to fill it. "That this Marshal seeks for military aid. Rohan is beset by enemies, so they say."

Her father had mentioned much the same. But there were many in Rohan that were fighting against it, rather than ignoring the evil as Denethor was. The king's son, and the king's nephew. Which was this Éomer? Surely he was one or the other.

"I have heard rumors of Wild Men, which they expelled from their lands before settling it," Lothíriel said, to keep Denethor talking. "They seek revenge."

"Oh, yes, indeed they do. And who is to fault them?" It was the sort of vague response her uncle favored, and she grit her teeth.

"Are there other supposed enemies?" Lothíriel asked lightly. Denethor's cold eyes snapped to her face, and she affected disinterest, sipping wine as if she had not a care in the world.

"It depends who you ask," he said after a moment. "They will claim orcs and...what is it? Uruk-hai… Half-men, half-orcs. The man part being supplied by these Wild Men, apparently…and bred by the wizard Saruman." Denethor's tone grew brisk, and he wiped his face with a napkin. "Niece, I want you to discern the motives of this Marshal. I would not be surprised if he wishes to undermine my rule with fanciful tales from the north, or to bind us in alliance to save them, or to betray us when he deems necessary. I wish not to bother with him, but he rides for Minas Tirith already." His derision was clear. Who was this Marshal, to assume he might bother the great Steward of Gondor without proper permission?

"Yes, Uncle." And so she would. But not for the reasons Denethor believed. Perhaps this Marshal could be trusted—or even Rohan itself. Clearly he, and others, were involved against the evil. Imrahil would need to know. Lothíriel placed down her fork and knife, smiling benignly. "Thank you for the meal, sir," she said.

He waved a hand absently at her, and Lothíriel stood, curtsying low before turning to sweep out of the huge dining hall.

She had much to write to her father. Both of Lord Arcor's loyalty, and of this Marshal of Rohan. What a mystery this Éomer presented. Lothíriel wondered if Denethor was correct, if he _was_ acting against Gondor. Then she chided herself, and shivered in the early spring air which she walked through the gardens towards her chamber. Not everyone was an enemy. Denethor was paranoid. She need not be, too.

Lothíriel had been in the court too long. She did not know her own mind anymore.

* * *

 _A short chapter today, but this is as far as we'll go in the past._


	7. Chapter 7

_3020 TA, Minas Tirith_

Lothíriel was roused from deep sleep by a rolling in her gut, and knowing exactly what was going to happen she stumbled out of her bed, untangling herself from the bedsheets, and just made it to the chamber pot to vomit.

After her stomach was emptied, she took several deep breaths. She closed her eyes, trying to calm her frantically beating heart. Had she eaten something spoiled? She remembered feasting on cold cheeses and meats with Éomer in her father's kitchens sometime around midnight; she could not recall eating too much nor anything that had a whiff about it.

But there was no use contemplating it further. She was finished vomiting, and likely it would not happen again; at least, if it _was_ something she ate. And she dearly hoped it was.

She splashed some cool water on her face at the washstand, and then hobbled back to to bed to bury herself in blankets. It was not yet noon; likely no one in the upper circles of the city would be up for several hours yet. The great celebrations in Merethrond had gone on until dawn, which Lothíriel knew because she had been able to hear the music from her chamber. Éomer had left sometime before that point, when she had grown too tired to talk any longer. She recalled little of their conversation; only that they had laughed much. She had been utterly careless of her concerns.

Perhaps—perhaps _that_ was causing her illness. Immediately her mind took this thought and twisted it.

Lothíriel was normally very rarely ill, but the past days she had felt ill every day. Weeks, even. And this morning seemed to be a climax, perhaps due to a decision. A wrong decision. Was this a sign, sent by the Valar?

Should she not marry Éomer after all?

The only response was a throbbing pain in her head, and she closed her eyes tightly. Lothíriel wanted to marry Éomer, more than anything! How could her body be rebelling against her?—unless it was trying to warn her.

She did not want these thoughts. She only wished to live with Éomer forever and to be happy, but with such a prelude . . . it was not seeming possible. But how could she have been so confident, so unconcerned the night before when she was with him?

The kissing, of course. His kisses always made her see stars.

Lothíriel eventually drifted to sleep, her pillow wet with tears. But this time her rest was interrupted with nightmares again; the piercing cries of the Nazgul jolting her, unsettling her nerves. She could smell the smoke as Minas Tirith burned . . . the screams of the dying and the hissing of orcs . . .

* * *

When her maid entered around noon, Lothíriel was sitting in a hard chair by the window, staring out at the cloudless blue sky and the fields of Pelennor. She barely heard the sound of a breakfast tray being placed on a table and the chamber pot being taken away.

What was she to do?

The battle within her, between her heart and the terrible side of herself which feared and doubted, raged on. She could not trust her decision to marry Éomer the night before; she had been compromised by his kisses. She must think. She must weigh the options. She must be clever. This was the remainder of her life she was deciding!

It was fortunate she was not needed anywhere for the next days, as she had no desire to leave the privacy of her chamber. If anyone noticed that she had barely eaten anything, there were no comments. Erchirion visited once to invite her on a ride, but retracted when he saw her face. Éomer also called on her, but she refused to see him. She had it relayed to them that she was ill.

But it was not fortunate that the end of those days, precisely five following Éowyn's wedding, her own betrothal feast was to take place. It would be announced that she and Éomer would marry! And her still questioning herself.

This grew to a fevered pitch the afternoon before the feast. Pacing her room frantically, frightened at the thought of pretending to hundreds of people that she was confident in her choice, she was ill again several times leading up until evening.

She could not marry her love. Not like this.

The sun was setting when Lothíriel sat down to pen a letter to Éomer with trembling hands. This route was easily decided; after all, if she tried to tell him in person that she was breaking off their betrothal he might try to change her mind. And he would succeed. Those blasted kisses!

Once it was complete—firm and non negotiable, she sent for her father. He at least must be told so that he could call off the feast. He would not change her mind . . . he trusted her. _She_ did not trust herself, even now.

Imrahil was already dressed in his finery when he entered her chamber, making her gut twist with guilt. How many others would she be disappointing tonight?

"I have decided," Lothíriel told her father, more boldly than she felt. "I cannot marry Éomer. I have written him a letter explaining why."

Imrahil's brows rose, but he did not comment. He took the proffered letter, gazing at the seal. "I can hardly believe this, daughter," he said mildly. "What troubles you? I know you have not been yourself, but that is no reason to refuse to marry, especially as this was—is—a love match."

"I have suspected for some time that Éomer and I will not suit."

"Suit? My dear, everyone who has seen the two of you together comments on nothing _but_ how well the two of you suit each other."

Lothíriel bristled—this she had not expected. "Well, everyone is not privy to my private thoughts and feelings. I am sorry, Father. I truly am. I wish—" her voice wavered, "I wish we _could_ be happy together. But we cannot."

He was still looking at her, his eyes keen and causing her to shift in discomfort. "Why?" he asked.

She swallowed. "I am not in a state to discuss this at present, Father. The letter will suffice for Éomer; perhaps he may explain further."

"Has he—hurt you in any way?"

"No! By the Valar, he has not. Éomer is nothing but honorable."

Imrahil said nothing for a moment, but held her face in his hand. Lothíriel sighed, leaning into her father's touch and closing her eyes briefly. How he loved her, she realized. She had seen so little of her father of late she began to wonder why she had not sought out his help with her troubles.

But it was too late.

"I am sorry for this, Lothíriel," he said gently. "I will give your letter to Éomer. Do not concern yourself of the betrothal feast—I will take care of it. Stay here and rest. We will talk later."

"Thank you, Father."

He kissed her forehead, and then departed.

Her decision done and her action taken, Lothíriel felt utterly deflated. She sunk into a chair, burying her face in her hands and succumbing to tears. Despite that marrying Éomer had not felt wholly right, this did not either. She loved him, even more so now that she would never have him.

What had Queen Arwen said? _You must make your choice, Lothíriel, and you will live with it. I cannot advise you on the matter of your feelings, but I can assure you that being wed to one whom you love is a greater happiness than anything else the world might offer. There is no greater reason to live than such peace and contentment._

There would be no peace and contentment, as far as Lothíriel could see. Then again, her foresight was very lacking. Apart from when it had convinced her that she and Éomer would not make each other happy. But they did make each other happy! Even simply being together, as man and woman though not husband and wife, they enjoyed one another's company. They had spent many an evening together, perfectly content.

Oh, how could marrying him be such a terrible option?

She must have sat in such rigid misery for some time, for soon the sound of loud voices in the courtyard roused her. Through the open window she could hear—Éomer, of course. And he was shouting. But at whom? She could not hear a reply.

But Lothíriel knew with a certainty that he was coming for her. She had almost been expecting it; she knew him rather well, after all. Standing quickly, she suppressed her panic and positively tore at the buttons on her dress and wriggled out of it. It was thrown onto the chair, and she tugged a nightgown over her shoulders and jumped into the bed, pulling the counterpane to her chin.

A knock sounded at the door. The maid's face peeked in, wary and a bit frightened. "My lady, King Éomer is here to see you."

"As you can see, I have already retired," Lothíriel said, out of breath. "I am not fit to be seen by anyone."

"Very well, my lady." The door shut.

She tried to calm herself; Éomer would be given the message and leave soon enough. There was a commotion in the corridor—what in Arda could it be? Lothíriel considered briefly going to investigate, but she would not dare risk seeing Éomer.

A loud pounding at the door nearly stopped her heart. That was no maid, nor a brother! Her heart began to hammer, and the door was thrown open. Éomer filled the chamber with his presence; dark anger and power and he glared down at her. Lothíriel sunk further into the bedclothes in shame and embarrassment.

"What is this?" he snapped, holding up her letter and throwing it onto a table. The seal was broken.

"It was fairly explanatory, I thought," Lothíriel managed to say. "You seem to have understood it, in any case." There was a twitch in his jaw, and she felt sweat break out along her neck. "Anyway, you should not be here. I am not dressed! Who gave permission for this?"

"Your father," Éomer growled. "The only one in your family with any sense."

"I—I cannot argue with that." She nearly choked on the words; how foolish was she?

Something in his expression softened. "Speak to me, Lothíriel," Éomer said, a tone of command in his voice. Suddenly that he was a king became very obvious in his demeanor, his expecting to be answered immediately. She became increasingly aware of her own state of undress, and pulled the covers more tightly to her chin.

"Pass me my dressing gown and I might," she said coolly. She was determined to keep her head. She must!

Éomer strode forward with heavy steps with his cape sweeping behind him like a billowing storm cloud, and he picked up a dressing gown from the foot of the bed and tossed it at her. Doing her utmost to keep herself modestly covered, Lothíriel draped herself in the gown as she left the bed and stood, at her full, bare-footed height and her nose at Éomer's chest. He was dressed in his formalwear, and his handsomeness was causing her hands to tremble. She set her jaw; she would not be intimidated!

"There is nothing to explain," Lothíriel said. "I have outlined everything in the letter. You _did_ read it, no?"

"Only the first few sentences—I want to hear the truth from your own lips. Lothíriel, Lothíriel! What has changed? Have I offended you?" The earnestness and sincerity in Éomer's gaze tore at her heart. What could she say? What could she do?

"You have not offended me," she said, her voice less certain now, but carrying on nonetheless. "Which you would understand if you had read the letter through. I am at fault."

This surprised Éomer. "Whatever do you mean, 'at fault'?"

"I have deceived you."

The softness to his eyes was gone. Instead, something hard surfaced in its place, and Éomer's shoulders stiffened. There was a grim set to his mouth, and Lothíriel pulled her dressing gown more tightly together with shaking hands. "You have deceived me," he repeated. "In what way?"

She was, admittedly, terrified. Apart from being alone with a large-statured and angry man in her chambers, Lothíriel could hardly express her fears and doubts. How long, how privately had she nurtured them? How _ashamed_ would she be to utter them aloud? She had written in the letter that they would not suit, but she guessed that Éomer would now expect a more thorough explanation.

"I cannot marry you," she said, though at this point that was rather stating the obvious. "It does not . . . seem right. And so I have tried to divine why."

"And?"

"Well—there is the matter of my being queen. I would be a very poor queen, I have decided."

Éomer did not look impressed. "Have you really?" he said dryly. "Well, I decided otherwise long ago. I had to, before I asked you to marry me."

Lothíriel had not considered that. Éomer thought she would make a good queen? He knew his country better than she did, perhaps he had the advantage of judgement . . . She gulped, and tried again, "I am not deserving of your love, Éomer. While I _do_ love you with all my heart, I have acted in ways that make me unworthy. You know my past; you know how I lied and schemed in Denethor's court. It is nigh on unforgivable."

" _I_ have forgiven you," Éomer said, with more patience than she expected. "The King—your present King, that is—has pardoned you. You need no other forgiveness from others; no one still blames you for your behavior as Denethor's lackey. Or have you not forgiven yourself?"

His words fell like the heavy thuds of books on her ears, and she blinked up at him stupidly. Of course she had not forgiven herself! She did not deserve to. She had said and done terrible, terrible things—for Gondor's best interest, of course. Though it had not felt so at the time.

Éomer continued softly, "Think of Gondor, Lothíriel. Think of the great amount of healing that has occurred since the end of the war. Think of the court—is it not a better place?"

She hesitated, and then nodded.

"Your ills are erased," he said. "There is no need to continue to incriminate yourself, my love."

His love! He still loved her. A bright spark of hope made her catch her breath. Now that some of her doubts were in the open, she could speak of more. "I have nightmares," Lothíriel said past the lump in her throat. "Nearly every night now. I—I see the siege again in my mind's eye, and I hear—I hear—" Her voice broke off. She could not continue. Éomer lifted his hands to her face and cradled it, pressing his forehead to her own.

"If I could take every fearful thought from you upon myself, I would," he murmured. "My love, I can offer you little relief, but tell me—is that truly a reason not to wed?"

Lothíriel shook her head, closing her eyes. She could not bear to see his face so close to her own.

"There now. What other demons have you been fighting?"

Tears were threatening to surface, and she blurted, "Denethor! He hated me. He said I was worth nothing. And now—I can hear his voice in my mind telling me I am—I am dispensable. That I have no real use."

Éomer growled low in his throat. "That man! If he were alive, I would wring his neck!"

"No—Éomer, no. It does not do to speak ill of the dead."

He glowered at her. "It does not do to listen to the dead, either. What do they know? Denethor knew little enough of happiness in the last years of his life, I would wager. Do not let his ghost trouble your present. He is gone. And you _do_ have use," Éomer added. "Many uses! He never knew you were spying right under his nose; naturally he would think you worth nothing. That is the entire idea of being a spy, no?"

Lothíriel opened her mouth and then shut it. And then opened it to say, "I—yes, you are right."

His thumbs were stroking along her chin, and there was a hint of smile about his lips. She sagged against him, and was wrapped in his warm embrace without another word.

"My love, my love . . ." he was whispering, "Why did you not say anything earlier? You should not be warring against yourself without an ally to withstand it. I wish—I wish I could have been here."

"No," Lothíriel sighed. "You only would have upset me more. You are causing these conflicts within me, you know; I dearly wish to marry you but I feel so—so inadequate. As you said, I have demons, and far too many. It only worsens the guilt."

"Hmm."

She felt the rumble in his chest, and her heart thumped. Éomer buried his face into her hair, breathing deeply and causing goose pimples to break out across her skin. She shivered.

"Will you persist then, and cry off?" he asked, his voice low. "Lothíriel, I wish you would not. I will wait a lifetime if I must, if that is how long is necessary for you to find peace."

"No, Éomer," she said, closing her eyes. "I will not make you wait a lifetime."

He lifted his head, grinning down at her and setting her nerves alight. "Then how long?" he asked.

Lothíriel bit her lip, searching her soul for the right answer. When would she be ready? The answer came more quickly than she expected, and she smiled up at him. "I have always preferred spring," she said. "And—I do not wish to marry in Minas Tirith. Not now."

"Oh?"

"I want our wedding to take place in Edoras. I—I am tired of Minas Tirith and its politics and the ghosts. I need—at least I think I need—a new beginning. And I want that with you, in Rohan."

Éomer was clearly startled. "Truly?" he asked, and then laughed. "It will save me a harrowing journey, that much is true. How can I refuse my bride? For I love her more than life itself."

She could not help giggling at this. "Oh, hush—Éomer, you are outside of enough. What a ridiculous thing to say!"

Unrepentant, he kissed the tip of her nose and then both her cheeks, his whiskers tickling her skin. Lothíriel wrapped her arms around his neck, laughing.

"Are you deceiving me now?" Éomer asked, pausing and looking at her with a serious expression.

"I do not believe so. I have told you all my concerns, at present." Lothíriel said after a moment's thought. There was no answering nausea within her, and so she assumed that all was well. If not—well, she did not really care. Not anymore. She would rather have doubts _with_ Éomer than to be without him entirely. She was sure of that!

"And if you have more?"

She lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug. "You will be receiving letters through the winter, then."

Éomer groaned. "Not more letters—my love, really, I would rather you speak to me rather than write; it is such a hassle—"

Lothíriel took his words at face value, and standing on the tips of her toes, silenced him with a kiss.

* * *

 _Whew! What a ride. Hope you're still with me. One more chapter to go!_


	8. Epilogue

_3021 TA, Edoras_

Edoras was brisk in the spring; chill winds from the mountains swept away any pockets of warmth that lingered from the bright sun. But the skies were cloudless and the streets packed full of markets stalls, makeshift shelters, horses and livestock—and it was Lothíriel's wedding day.

The nerves which had plagued her all those months were completely absent. Sitting in the queen's solar of Meduseld—soon to be _her_ solar—she laughed and talked with the ladies attending her: Queen Arwen, Princess Éowyn, and several women of various noble houses of Rohan, whom Lothíriel had met only recently. They were a cheery bunch, bright-eyed and lively, and to Lothíriel's enormous relief, showed none of the devious cunning with which she was so accustomed. Nor did they treat her as an outsider, or as an enemy from foreign lands who had acted despicably under Denethor's orders. To them, Lothíriel was the woman their king loved and who as queen would swear to serve them. That was enough reason to both care for her and to be merciful towards her inevitable adjustment to a new culture and a new station.

She loved Rohan already.

And not least for its king. Éomer had been nothing but attentive and considerate to her; both during their separation over the winter and since she had arrived in Edoras the week previous. How could she doubt him? How could she doubt being his wife?

Lothíriel would not allow herself to be cowed by her memories of her uncle, not anymore. She would act in accordance to her best conscience to become the queen which Rohan needed. And for today, they needed a beautiful one. They had travelled miles from around the Mark to see her and Éomer, after all.

The sea-green silk was a gift from her father; the golden lace trim from Queen Arwen. It had been meticulously sewn by the best tailor in Minas Tirith, and the Queen had applied the trim herself. It was a beautiful garment, and Lothíriel felt wondrous in it—though she did wonder idly if that was simply because of what it represented. She did hope that Éomer would appreciate it.

And evidently it did. When she was escorted to Meduseld's terrace for the ceremony on her father's arms, the eyes of the man she loved were nothing but warm—heated, even, as he held out his hand to her. There was a smirking grin on his handsome face, and his beard did not hide his dimples. He was dressed the part, too; in burgundy velvet and high boots, and her heart thudded.

She had never been so happy.

Some hours later she was forced to revise that notion.

Lothíriel's eyelids drooped, utterly content and warm as she lay in Éomer's arms. It was likely nearing midnight; the festivities and feasting both in the streets and in the hall had gone on for hours. They had been fortunate to escape earlier, there had always seemed to be one more toast, one more guest to greet. . .

Compared to the lively hall, the king's bedchamber was quiet and still, with only the cracking of the fire and the rustle of bedcurtains. A lazy breeze entered through the cracked-open window. The freshness of it was lovely, cooling their heated skin with the gentlest of caresses. Sleep, respite from the long day, beckoned.

She felt her husband press a kiss to her forehead, and a sleepy smile lifted her lips.

"Oh! I thought you were already sleeping," he said, his deep voice rumbling in his chest where her head lay. She lifted her head, quirking an eyebrow up at her husband.

"I doubt that," she teased. "If you truly thought I was asleep, you might not have jostled me so just now—or so I hope!"

Éomer grinned, and he brushed hair away from her face with his gentle fingers. "You know me too well already, wife of mine. This does not bode well for my pride in the future."

"If your pride was truly your first concern, then you ought not have married."

He laughed then, and rewarded her wit with a kiss. She wrapped her around around his neck, feeling the corded muscles which flexed under her touch. His own hands were traversing a slow, caressing path upwards on her bare leg, her hip, her waist. . .

They broke apart, breathing heavily. Lothíriel was languid with his heavy body half-draped atop hers, and she smiled up at her husband.

 _This_ , she thought dizzyingly to herself as he nuzzled her nose with his own. _This is the happiest I have been._

* * *

 _There it is, folks. I suppose this chapter is more an epilogue than anything. Anyways, hope you liked it, and let me know what you think. As always I'm very grateful for all the kind reviews, they just make me want to write more and more!_


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